


Jeeves and the Inconvenient Emotions

by Bittercape (bittercape)



Series: Jeeves and the Inconvenient Emotions [1]
Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, POV Jeeves, Period Typical Attitudes, lavender marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:22:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27085540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittercape/pseuds/Bittercape
Summary: Jeeves makes a terribly inconvenient discovery, solves a problem, and does not solve another problem.
Relationships: Reginald Jeeves/Bertram "Bertie" Wooster
Series: Jeeves and the Inconvenient Emotions [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1976821
Comments: 21
Kudos: 107
Collections: Fic In A Box





	1. A Personal Discovery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [felix814](https://archiveofourown.org/users/felix814/gifts).



The fateful day dawned like any other day. I awoke, as I customarily do, at 5:55 a.m., five minutes before my alarm was set. This practice allowed me the early morning hours to do as I pleased, before preparing Mr. Wooster’s breakfast and waking him at 10 a.m. On this particular morning, I brewed a pot of my favourite Assam and spent a quiet half-hour reading a novel before I went for a refreshing walk. 

This is something I try to make a habit of. The life of a valet has its moments of vigour, but it does not provide me with the level of activity I got used to in my younger years as a footman, and thus I preferred to at least get an hour’s brisk walk in a day, if I did not have the opportunity for other exercise. My life was generally quite busy, but my mornings were always my own.

The streets were sparsely populated at this hour, and the fog was thick and moist. One might imagine this would make my walk less enjoyable, but this kind of weather is the kind I enjoy the most. The cooler air made the mist rise from the Thames, and I admired the stark beauty of it mixing with the fog as I walked along the bank. 

Passing through Westminster I didn’t see a soul. One might have thought the city abandoned or everyone in it kidnapped, but I knew well this was the only hour of day the streets were as empty as this. At the edge of St. James’s Park I saw two men walking closely together, but they were heading away from me and towards the bridge, and their business was none of my concern. Having passed through the park, the newsboy had just set up at his customary corner, and I got a copy of _The Times_ on my way past. 

Mr. Jarvis, the doorman, had just started his work day when I got back to Berkeley Mansions, and he greeted me cheerfully, if slightly sleepily, as he opened the door to let me in. I enquired briefly after his wife and his youngest, who had had a bit of a cold earlier in the week, and promised to bring him a flask of my beef broth later in the day to take home. I received his best wishes for mine and Mr. Wooster’s health in return. I knew I could expect some of Mrs. Jarvis’ biscuits in exchange for the broth, and while the exchange was not the reason for my offer, it would still be gratefully received. Mr. Wooster had a particular fondness for her biscuits, especially the ones made with cardamom. 

Back in the kitchen, I brewed a fresh pot of tea and started on the paper. Nothing significant had happened in the last twenty-four hours. There had been a rather long debate on taxation on secondary country estates, but no changes to the law had been made. Several plays had been reviewed, none of which looked interesting to either me or Mr. Wooster, different as our tastes were. Mrs. Little had published her latest novel, which had been received reasonably well. The weather would continue as it had been for the last week or so; overcast with rain showers and dropping temperatures. Nothing unusual for the season that could explain the madness that overcame me that day. 

I had my breakfast of toast and marmalade, and prepared Mr. Wooster’s usual: eggs and bacon, lightly buttered toast, grilled tomato. I let it remain on the stove to keep warm while I brewed his tea and went to wake him. When I stepped into the room, everything was as normal. He was sleeping spread out over the bed, covers having slipped off slightly, a naked foot poking out. I put the tea cup down on the side table and went to open the curtains, and when I turned back, the world changed.

The grey light of the morning must have disturbed him enough that he turned over, blinking a little. And then he looked at me and smiled the happiest smile I had ever seen, before he closed his eyes and fell back asleep. It hit me like a punch to the solar plexus, and I had to support myself on the wall for a few seconds. He was the most beautiful thing in the world at that moment, and just then I realised I loved him. 

This was a disaster. 


	2. A Problem, To Distract From The Main Problem

I gathered myself sufficiently to wake Mr. Wooster as normal and hand him his tea. He did not seem to have any memories of having woken just a few minutes past, and I did not enlighten him. He asked about the weather, as he usually does, and I went to get his breakfast. Everything was as normal, and everything had changed. 

He is fond of saying I sometimes look like a “stuffed frog”. I must admit I made a trip to the Natural History Museum early in my employment to take a look at such a specimen. A lot of things could be said about my master, but he does have a way with words. The taxidermied amphibian had a remarkable resemblance to my uncle Charlie at his most strict, and I could only assume I had subconsciously imitated his expression when trying to communicate disapproval without being uncouth enough to express such a sentiment in words. 

On that fateful morning, I fell back on that very expression in order to hide my roiling emotions. The tactic worked in that Mr. Wooster first was too preoccupied with his morning meal to notice, and then frowned and went looking through his wardrobe in search of any offending items. He offered up an offensive chartreuse cravat as a sacrifice, and I accepted, hoping to have avoided suspicion. Soon after, he escaped to the Drones Club, saying he’d be back before dinner. I carefully folded the obnoxious cravat and put it in my desk drawer. Looking back, this seems like a highly irrational act, and I cannot to this day tell you what I was thinking. 

I spent the day doing my normal tasks; dusting, cleaning, shopping for groceries. I cannot say I put my heart and soul into my work that day, for my mind was entirely preoccupied with this unfortunate situation I had put myself into. 

I was, of course, aware of my preferences. I was also well aware of the dangers connected to such preferences, and the caution men like me must always employ. Mr. Wooster, I was certain, was not a man like me. He was not a man to whom secrecy and subterfuge came naturally. He had an open, honest face, what he himself described as a “sunny disposish”, and, despite his aversion to marriage, did not display any of the tell-tale signs that I had learned to recognise over the years. In short, my unfortunate emotions would never be reciprocated, even if one could overlook the issue of class – something I, for one, could not imagine myself doing. I had no wish to waste away with longing like one of the heroines in the romantic stories I (secretly) enjoyed. In conclusion, these emotions were best crushed and suppressed immediately.

Thus decided, I set about preparing dinner. I did not know precisely when Mr. Wooster would return from his club, so I readied what could be readied and sat down again with my novel. I got nearly an hour of uninterrupted reading before the doorman rang the bell that indicated Mr. Wooster was on his way up, and I was ready by the door to take his coat when he came in. 

I could immediately tell he was distracted. He seemed worried and preoccupied, and didn’t respond directly to my enquiries about his lunch. I served him his customary brandy and soda before going back to the kitchen to prepare his meal. 

He ate in silence, and to my great relief, he finished his meal. Sometimes he will not, when he is feeling low, and I was glad to see this was not the case. When I came back out after clearing away the plates, he was sitting by the piano, staring at the keys.

“Jeeves,” he said. He paused for such a long time I was forced to respond, disturbed from the usual rhythm of our conversation; I had thought he would continue immediately. 

“Jeeves, would you mind playing with me?” I _would_ mind, although I could not say so without giving a reason, and my reason was that I was not yet ready to be so close to him as playing four hands required. This was obviously something I could not disclose, so I murmured acquiescence and sat down at his left. His shoulders dropped a little, as though he was relieved. 

Unlike his usual favoured contemporary ditties, he started playing the first movement of Schubert’s _Fantasia in F minor_ , reaching over to my side of the piano to start with the lower notes. Aside from the distraction his side pressed against mine provided, both his choice and his skill in playing such a complex piece of music from memory surprised me, and it took me a few bars too long to start playing. He did not remark upon it, but kept playing to perfection for the entire first movement before speaking. 

“Jeeves, I have a friend who has a problem.” This was not in any way unusual. Most of Mr. Wooster’s friends had a number of problems at any given time, and they often came to him. Partly because coming to him meant coming to me, and I usually solved these problems easily enough, but also because Mr. Wooster was generous with his time, his sympathy, and his money. Sometimes _too_ generous, but I could not change his nature to such a degree as to prevent this. Not that I wanted to. As I kept playing, I reflected that my feelings for him were for the most part based on the better side of his nature; his kindness and generosity, his bright outlook on life, his talent with words and music. He had kept silent while I was thinking, and I realised with a start he was waiting for some kind of encouragement from me. 

“Yes, sir?” I asked.

“Well, the thing is, it’s a delicate matter. He couldn’t tell me, and I can guess, but it’s really none of my business, what?” I chanced a glance over at him; he kept playing flawlessly, but looked distracted. 

“Indeed, sir.” He fell into silence, and I waited for as long as I felt I could.

“If you don’t mind me asking, sir …”

“Please do,” he replied.

“How does your friend expect you to help if he can’t tell you what his problem is, sir?” His ears turned slightly pink, and he focused his gaze on the keys again.

“I might have … sung your praises, old fruit, and I don’t want to bother you, but he has really asked for your help, and I rather hope you won’t mind terribly.” This was unusual. He had often asked my assistance with helping his friends, and some of them had even come directly to me. I could not tell in what way this request was different. Turning back to him, his blush had spread to his cheeks, but he clearly had decided to ignore it. Following suit, I would not remark upon it, even though my curiosity was sparked.

“Certainly, sir,” I said, and he added a few extra notes to the twittering upper keys. 

“Jolly good, I’ll ask him over for lunch, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

We played the rest of the piece in silence, and then I got up to fetch him another drink. He started playing some more contemporary melodies, but he played them in a minor key and did not sing. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fantasia in F minor: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UyjzqPPXDcw


	3. A Friend In Need

Mr. Wooster’s friend did indeed turn up for lunch two days later, and was introduced to me as Mr. Ronald Dormer. I served them a light lunch of salmon on a bed of steamed vegetables. They chatted easily and amicably, and lingered over their cake, gossiping about old school friends and the various things they had gotten up to. After some time, Mr. Wooster left the dining room and went into the sitting room to play the piano, while Mr. Dormer remained. I cleared the table, and Mr. Dormer got increasingly agitated as I kept moving back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room. He tapped his fingers restlessly on the table, straightened his cuffs repeatedly, and adjusted the placement of the little trinkets on the windowsill. Eventually, he asked me to sit down with him, and I reluctantly did so. It hardly seemed proper, but on the other hand, I did not wish to refuse.

My impression of Mr. Dormer was reasonably good. He was a handsome and well-groomed young man with steely grey eyes and a hair a pleasing shade of blond - not pale enough to look washed-out, and not yellow enough to make one draw any comparisons to haystacks. Additionally, he did not seem as empty-headed as most of Mr. Wooster’s friends, and their conversation, while trivial, had not held any silliness or any of the cavalier attitude I had come to expect from the likes of Mr. Glossop or Mr. Prosser. I was also fairly certain Mr. Dormer was an invert, and one I would have spotted at a fair distance. This gave me an indication of what his problem might be, and why he had not wished to confide in Mr. Wooster.

Mr. Dormer proved me correct almost immediately, laying out the matter clearly and without any unnecessary embellishments. 

“I hope I can be frank with you, Mr. Jeeves,” he started, “Bertie has spoken highly of your trustworthiness, and I believe you are a man of some … experience.” His calculating gaze revealed he had made the same assessment as I had, and although I am both discrete and cautious, like will, undoubtedly, recognise like. I did not confirm his suspicions beyond a nod, and he continued.

“My situation will be, at least on the surface, familiar to you, I believe. My Uncle Henry, Lord Wensleydale, is preoccupied with the continuation of the family name. He is childless, and I stand to inherit the title. It is of little concern to him that I am not of an inclination to marry, and I fear he suspects my … nature, as we may put it. I have both sisters and cousins whose offspring will inherit the title when I remain childless, but he is, unfortunately, intent upon seeing me married.” He sighed deeply. “The fortune is tied to the estate, so he has no power over my inheritance, but obnoxious as the old man is, I do still care for him and hope he will live for many more years. I just want to avoid this constant encouragement on marriage. And especially after I met Paul, his interference has been much more of a problem. You see, Paul is worried I will give in for fear of discovery, and I promise I will not. But this situation is hard on him, and I would like for him to be less worried.” Mr. Dormer put his chin in his hands and looked at me expectantly.

I felt a deep sympathy for this young man. He had found his true love, but was being - he used the word encouraged, but  _ pressured _ seemed more accurate - to marry. In some respects, this was a familiar situation to me, having disentangled Mr. Wooster from more than one engagement. Moreover, considering my own current emotional state, I was inclined to be sympathetic towards his troubles. 

Upon inquiry, Mr. Dormer revealed a love for musical theatre, and he was hoping for success with an upcoming show which he was to direct. If he could create a name for himself, he hoped to achieve financial independence, but he was reluctant to gamble on the success of his play, citing the fickleness of audiences and the even greater fickleness of investors. This young man seemed uncommonly sensible for Mr. Wooster’s usual social circle, and I approved of his caution. His choice of employment also brought a possible solution to mind.

“I believe, Mr. Dormer, there is a … tried and tested solution to your problem,” I said. He leaned forward eagerly. 

“It is my understanding that men of your - or  _ our _ \- persuasion often are drawn to the theatre, and that ladies of a similar, if opposite, mind do the same?” He appeared to think about this, and frowned.

“Well, hardly everyone, you know; I mean, several of the chorus girls have gentlemen friends, and I know for a fact our male lead is engaged to the ticket girl - “ I felt it necessary to interrupt, lest he think I had the wrong impression.

“Of course, I merely meant that where …  _ free spirited  _ people gather, the likelihood of finding a variety of inclinations might be higher than in society as a whole.” He nodded, mollified. 

“That’s true enough; after all, the theatre is where I met Paul, and …” He broke off. “At any rate, I don’t see how a girl would help. No matter how free spirited she is, I will not change my mind about Paul.”

“You misunderstand, sir. A lady in a similar situation would perhaps agree to enter an arrangement, for the protection and benefit of you both. Purely for the purposes of maintaining  a  _ façade _ of respectability, and with the full understanding of both your young man and her young lady, of course.” His smile was radiant and happy. 

“Would you mind terribly coming to our rehearsal tomorrow? I don’t know which of the girls to ask, or how I would even bring it up. There’s a terrible risk, you know, not just with Uncle Henry, but …” I nodded understanding. 

“My day off is Thursday, but Mr. Wooster will most likely be understanding if I wish to take another day. I assume you would like him to remain unaware of the nature of your problem?”

He looked at me oddly, then, and in retrospect I should have understood so much more from that, but he nodded and thanked me, and shortly after took his leave of me and joined Mr. Wooster in the sitting room. 

  
  



	4. A Solution To The Secondary Problem

As predicted, Mr. Wooster had no objections to my proposed change to schedule, and instead offered to give me an extra day that week. I thanked him for his kindness, and he pretended it was of little consequence, as I shouldn’t have to use my spare time to help “old Ronnie”, in his opinion. I wondered if he would be as charitable had he known what Mr. Dormer’s problem was, but I chose to believe he would. Mr. Wooster may have been naive in the ways of the world, and his opinions might sometimes have been uninformed, but he was never anything less than kind to his friends, and I did not believe even the shock of realising the truth of Mr. Dormer’s inclinations would steer him off that path. And so I took the extra day with gratitude, and headed to the address Mr. Dormer had given me.

The theatre was small, dark and smoky after the clear air outside, and it felt like stepping into another dimension for all the change in atmosphere. Mr. Dormer hailed me as an old friend, and introduced me to the various people standing close by, his gentleman friend Mr. Spencer among them. Mr. Spencer was a handsome man in a vaguely horse-like manner: He had a long face with soulful brown eyes and a rather startling head of springy curls, somewhere between ginger and chestnut in colour. He and Mr. Dormer were of a similar build, slender and jumpy-looking, but Mr. Dormer’s blond waves were almost half a head shorter than Mr. Spencer. 

Observing the fairer sex for attachments is not among my most prominent skills, so I was prepared for needing more time than usual to familarise myself with the task I had set myself, and so I settled in for a day of observation. I was confident I would find an appropriate young lady given time. Over the course of an hour, I had helped several of the chorus girls do up their costumes in the back, as the hooks seemed of poor quality and had a tendency to slip from the eyes, helped a young lady named Essie to darn her stocking, and saved the male lead from tripping head first into the orchestra pit when his shoe laces had come undone. I was, however, no closer to finding a suitable person. 

Miss Essie, who had seemed both observant and quick-witted from our initial conversation, took pity on me after a few hours, and fetched a cup of tea and a biscuit. We had a pleasant break in which she revealed being engaged to one of the male dancers, that she was hoping to be elevated to the lofty position of singer rather than chorus, and that she was living with two other young ladies. Deeming her both open minded and trustworthy, I confided my mission to her: That I was looking for a young lady with an attachment to another young lady, in order to help an acquaintance. She immediately caught my meaning, proving herself to be as sharp-witted as I had suspected.

“Oh, like a lavender marriage?” Her eyes widened delightedly. “I know exactly who you’re looking for.” With that, she hurried towards the wardrobes, before I had the time to explain that an actual marriage in all likelihood would not be necessary. She returned shortly with two ladies whom I had not previously been introduced to; one short and slim, with a severe bob haircut, and one short and round, with blonde curls and deep dimples. Essie introduced them as Mathilda and Claire, no family names given, and they greeted me cautiously. 

I used as few words as possible to explain my task. They both seemed uncertain, but as I elaborated, Miss Mathilda looked pensive. 

“I do rather have a similar problem,” she said. She stroked her sleek hair in a thoughtful manner. Miss Claire sighed and sat down on a crate. 

“My mother does not approve of … well, most things about me, really. My haircut, my work, or most of all, my reluctance to marry. I do not believe she suspects us,” she gestured to her companion, “but that is more to do with her frankly Victorian attitudes to women and their needs - “ I must have paled slightly, having no wish for more information about women’s needs, and Miss Claire patted her comfortingly on the thigh. 

“Easy there, Tilly,” she giggled. “Mr. Jeeves would prefer to remain ignorant of your needs, it seems.” I inclined my head politely, not wishing to encourage either debate or elaboration, and Miss Matilda acquiesced. 

“Oh, all right, then. Although both men and women should be better educated on these matters, I suppose I should consider my audience.” She gave a slight smirk which would have been unsettling under other circumstances, and continued.

“My mother is concerned with class and propriety, which I am not, and even if Claire had been a man, she would have been unsuitable in my mother’s eyes for her family being in  _ trade _ ,” she said mockingly, “Like we are living in a Jane Austen novel.” Her snort was most unladylike, and I was uncomfortable with where the conversation was headed. I attempted to head her off with an enquiry about her family background. 

“My father is Lord Farnborough, and as I am an only child, my mother is desperate for the line to continue, and preferably for me to provide a large enough brood to populate the estate and the surrounding villages for generations to come. Luckily, Father would rather sell the old heap and move to the south of France, so she is fighting a losing battle. But a fiancé might calm her down for a while.”

I explained that I would bring my suggestion to the gentlemen in question, without mentioning names for the sake of security, and if all parties were agreeable, I would arrange for them to meet for the evening meal at a nearby restaurant the same evening. The ladies agreed to these terms, and Mr. Dormer and Mr. Spencer in turn seemed happy to be left to figure out the details with the ladies. I left with the satisfaction of a problem well solved.

  
  



	5. A Night On The Town

A few days later, Mr. Dormer stopped by while Mr. Wooster was out, and could confirm that he had come to an agreement with the Hon. Miss Mathilda Long, where they would appear to be engaged for a period of two years before parting ways. They both felt this would make both Lord Wensleydale and Lady Farnborough satisfied for the time being, as they both came from appropriate families. Mr. Dormer was to inherit, ensuring Lady Farnborough’s approval, while Miss Long was more than respectable enough to satisfy the sensibilities of Lord Wensleydale. Their respective partners, not being burdened with the scrutiny of a noble family, were both assured that affections remained unchanged, and had even started planning for a holiday together in the summer. All in all, a happy solution for all involved. 

As he was taking his leave, Mr. Dormer invited me to the premiere of his show, and extended his invitation to Mr. Wooster. I was not entirely comfortable accompanying Mr. Wooster, but when he was informed of the opportunity, he waved my concerns aside.

“Pish tosh, Jeeves,” he said. “You earned these tickets, did you not? In which case I am delighted to be accompanying you to this shindig. You know, Ronnie was always rather good at this kind of thing, I wonder what this’ll be like.”

When the evening came, I dressed Mr. Wooster and then left him in the sitting room with his brandy and soda while I went to don my evening attire. He looked impressed when I came back, and remarked upon my clothing in the lift downstairs. In the taxicab, he leaned close. 

“You know, Jeeves, we could pretend that those pesky class distinctions weren’t there? Just for tonight, I mean; nobody would suspect you to be anything but a gentleman,” he whispered conspiratorially. I shivered at both the impropriety (which admittedly intrigued me) and at the implications (of which he was surely unaware).

“I might need a little longer to prepare for such an adventure, Sir,” I answered, not wishing to dismiss the idea out of hand, but not ready to comply either. He leaned back, and nodded, looking at me with an unfamiliar, considering gaze. And then he smiled, just like he usually did, and I imagined the calculation in his eyes was just a trick of the light.

“Just as you say, Jeeves.” And he remained silent for the rest of the journey. 

The theatre looked very different when filled with people and lights and music. It was not the first time I had observed the transformation from rehearsal to show, but there was a unique kind of magic to it nonetheless. Mr. Wooster obtained two glasses of champagne, and we toasted in silence. 

There was a tension in the air between us, something new and undefinable, and I was unsure of what it meant. Ever since he had brought up Mr. Dormer, he had seemed different – or he was looking at me differently, I could not determine which. Had I been of a more paranoid nature, I would have worried he suspected, but I could not imagine he would. He was not the most observant of men, his many good qualities aside, and I had had no indication he was aware of Mr. Dormer’s proclivities. No, my secret was safe. I hoped this tension would fade soon, and that we would go back to normal.

The bell rang, and we went to find our seats. I was intensely aware of his closeness, there in the darkness, and the small part of my leg that was in contact with his felt like it was on fire. I was too distracted to pay very close attention to the show, but it seemed good enough. A light hearted story, with well executed choreography and songs made to be quickly picked up and remembered - I could already hear Mr. Wooster humming quietly along beside me - seemed to be a recipe for success. 

Mr. Wooster was very enthusiastic in the intermission, thankfully, because I could not have explained a word of the plot. I longed for something stronger than the champagne to fortify me, but I did not dare trust myself under the influence. So the bell rang again, and in we went for the second act, and I was in the dark, altogether too close to Mr. Wooster, and wanting nothing more than to reach across the short distance and pull him to my chest. Something similar was happening on the stage, I saw: The male lead who I had saved from an accident in the pit, was embracing the female lead passionately, singing a song that seemed to be on the theme of longing, and aching to hold her, and having waited for too long. The melody seemed far too happy for such sentiments, at least to my addled mind, but I had to admit it seemed of a better quality than most of the genre. 

By the thunderous applause, the rest of the audience agreed heartily. There were several curtain calls, and eventually, Mr. Dormer was called to the stage to accept the accolades. He blushed becomingly and bowed, before disappearing into the wings. I just glimpsed a wild mane of chestnut curls before the lights came up and all activity near the stage ceased. 

As we filed out into the lobby, I listened as Mr. Wooster and the other people around us were all in agreement that this had been an uncommonly good performance. Mr. Wooster exchanged greetings with several people of his acquaintance and exchanged various positive remarks on the show, while I did my best to fade into the background. I am normally very good at remaining unobtrusive, but somehow he kept his attention on me. I could feel his gaze whenever I moved slightly. Eventually, the crowd thinned, and Mr. Wooster grabbed my arm and headed towards the stage entrance. It was guarded by a single pimpled youth, who let us in without argument when he gave our names, simply as Jeeves and Wooster, like equals, with no honorifics. I felt unmoored, like I was somewhere outside of myself where the normal rules did not apply. 

When we reached the lights of the back stage, Mr. Wooster immediately spotted Mr. Dormer and ran over with enthusiastic exclamations. I held back until I was spotted by Miss Essie, and soon I was surrounded by the chorus girls, who all wanted my comments on the play in general and their own performance in particular. They all seemed satisfied with my vague compliments, and soon enough started lamenting the state of their hooks. I was pleased to be able to recommend a haberdashery quite close by, that boasted of the quality of their metal fasteners especially, when I had enquired. They were delighted I had taken the trouble to investigate the matter, and I could reveal that I had availed myself of another man’s expertise by asking Mr. Wooster’s tailor for recommendations when I picked up his new winter coat. 

The champagne was flowing and the cast were all singing and dancing, and I somehow forgot my discomfort with appearing less than immaculate in front of my employer. Over the course of the evening, I danced with Miss Essie, Miss Long, and Miss Claire, as well as several of the chorus girls, the male lead and Mr. Spencer. Mr. Dormer embraced me tearfully and happily, and was eventually poured into a taxicab by the combined efforts of Miss Long and Mr. Spencer, the latter joining him to “see him home safely”. Miss Long, who seemed to be relatively sober, thanked him for taking care of her fiancé, and his grin and wink was almost subtle enough to be missed. 

I was standing outside to cool off, my jacket left behind and my shirtsleeves folded back, smoking a gasper, when Mr. Wooster appeared beside me. I had not noticed him arrive and wondered how long he had been there, but he just fished out a cigarette from his elegant silver case and waited for me to light it for him. He was warm from dancing, I could almost feel the heat radiating off him in the cool night air, and his hair was curling with the moisture. He looked tired, and warm, and happy, and he was still the most beautiful thing I had ever seen – even with his tie hanging unknotted and untidy and his collar in disarray. We stood in silence, smoking. It felt unreal, like the entire evening had been unreal. Like his suggestion of dispensing with the formalities had changed something irrevocable, like we truly were equals. And in this world, we could be, of a sort. In this world where the future Lord Wensleydale was free to go home with Mr. Spencer of no particular family, where Essie the chorus girl could dance with both a member of the servant class and the future Lord Yaxley without anyone batting an eyelid. Where a man and his valet could, perhaps - 

I stopped my thoughts there. It was too dangerous to contemplate. I could not let this go on, and I resolved to make good on my promise to myself to quash my emotions and move on from these hopeless feelings for my employer. In the morning. For tonight, I would allow myself a little bit of escape from reality. 

Within reason. I folded down my shirtsleeves and went back inside. 

  
  



	6. A Morning Interlude

My memories of getting home were not entirely clear, but I was reasonably certain it had not yet been light outside and that I had not confessed my feelings for Mr. Wooster. Beyond that, I could not say for certain, but I woke only an hour after my customary time and indulged in a hot shower. I felt justified in showering longer than usual, as I was fairly certain Mr. Wooster would not be upright for several hours, and I had certain urgent matters to take care of. After that necessary intermission and one of my special restoratives, I felt significantly better and ready to confront and conquer my emotional state. 

I had my usual breakfast. I drank my tea slowly and enjoyed every sip. I went for a walk, albeit a shorter one than my usual, as I wanted to be back by the time Mr. Wooster woke, although that would likely not be for several hours yet. 

I came back to the flat, and Mr. Wooster had not stirred. I settled down with my novel and went back to check on him after an hour. This time, I recognised the change in his breathing that signalled he was closer to waking up, so I went to make his restorative, and when I returned, he was just blinking awake. 

“Good morning, Sir,” I said, and he yawned like his jaw would unhinge completely. And then he turned to me.

“Jeeves, you absolute marvel,” he said, and that happy smile crumbled my resolve and made me feel just as weak as I had that fateful day the previous week. My knees were shaking slightly as I stepped over to the bed with his glass, but he was too sleepy to notice, I thought. 

He finished it quickly and with a grimace, and I handed him a glass of water, both for washing down the restorative and for his hydration. I left to fetch his tea, and so I did not see the searching gaze he gave my retreating back. 

When I came back, everything seemed normal. Mr. Wooster was sitting up in bed, eagerly reaching for his tea and enquiring after the weather and the news. I realised I had forgotten to bring the paper, and apologised, saying I would rectify the situation immediately, but Mr. Wooster waved me off and said it could wait. Instead, he requested I draw him a bath, and so I did. I added some epsom salts for his recovery, even though he seemed to be in fine form. I supposed last night had not been much out of the ordinary for him, either in terms of the alcohol consumption or the lateness of the hour. I had folded back my sleeves to check the temperature of the bath water when I felt his eyes on me like a weight. I turned slowly, and there he was, leaning against the door frame, looking at my forearms with an unfamiliar, almost assessing gaze. And still I didn’t connect the dots. 

“Sir?” I asked.

“Oh hello,” he answered distractedly. “Bath, what? Jolly good.” This seemed rather more nonsensical than his usual, but I put it down to the (for him) early hour after a late night, and helped him out of his pajamas and into the bathtub. I was proud to be able to say neither my eyes or my hands lingered, even though it took a massive effort of will. But I would not subject him to anything untoward from me. And if he leaned more heavily against me than I was accustomed to, I attributed it to my own emotions, and did my best to ignore it. 

Mr. Wooster safely ensconced in the bath, I handed him a fresh cup of tea and left the room as fast as I decently could. I barely took the time to put on a coat and hat, and hurried out - ostensibly for the paper, but also to get some much needed distance between my employer’s wet, naked body and my fevered imaginations. 

It took me all too short a time to get back with the paper, and I merely skimmed the contents while removing my outerwear and stepping back into the bathroom. Mr. Wooster was as I had left him, somewhat more pink tinged and reclined completely. His head was leaned back, and he had slung one of his long legs over the edge, presumably to cool off a little. I wanted to bite his calf. 

I manfully ignored all this, and cleared my throat gently. 

“Ah, Jeeves,” he murmured, and he sounded satisfied enough to make his voice slur a little on the consonants. I knew with dread certainty I would hear those words, uttered exactly like that, in my dreams for a long time to come. I had to clear my throat again to make words come out, and for a moment I thought I saw a smirk on his lips. But no, that was surely my imagination. I started reciting the events of the day, reading quickly as I went, and in time I reached the review for Mr. Dormer’s play. It was a very favourable review indeed, and well deserved in my opinion. Mr. Wooster agreed heartily.

I read out the racing results while Mr. Wooster lounged in the bath, and when I was done, he rose unceremoniously, pink and white like a decidedly masculine Venus rising from the foam, and I wrapped his towel around him. Then I left him, as I usually did, and had a little sit down in the kitchen to calm myself.

  
  



	7. A Confrontation

In retrospect, the following days were filled with clues I failed to pick up. I am not proud to admit it, but on this occasion the distraction of my body overpowered my brain, and I was so entirely focused on my inappropriate emotions and yearnings that I presumably had no mental capacity left to take external input into account. Alternatively, being in love makes me very unobservant indeed, but I have reason to believe that is not the case on a general basis. 

To me, it seemed like everything in my life had decided to torture me. I imagined Mr. Wooster was constantly staying closer to me than before, leaning into me more often, speaking at a lower volume and forcing me closer to listen, asking me to play four-hands on the piano nearly every day, accompanying me on my errands around the city. I convinced myself it was folly to attribute any meaning to any of this, and that I was imagining half of it with my lust addled thoughts. 

Every time I opened my desk I found the chartreuse cravat, and while the colour was no less horrifying, I could not help but look at it with affection, even going so far as to pick it up and stroke it more than once. 

After that first morning, Mr. Wooster took to removing his pajama shirt during the night, waking up half naked and even more sleep-mussed than usual. I told myself he was getting too warm at night, and wondered if I should purchase thinner blankets. He came into the kitchen to watch me wash dishes or chop vegetables, chatting about everything under the sun. I told myself a lot of his friends were out of town, and he didn’t have as many people to talk to as he usually did. He suggested we go see Mr. Dormer’s play again. I told myself … I don’t know what I told myself, but I told myself something that made me able to ignore the truth, and I believed it. I truly believed every lie and denial I told myself during those miserable days, wherein I fell more deeply in love by the minute, and I could not seem to escape him anywhere. 

It probably would have continued in the same vein indefinitely, had not Mr. Dormer invited Mr. Wooster out for dinner, along with his “fiancée” and two of their good friends. I smiled in satisfaction upon hearing this, but declined the invitation to join. It would not have been proper to dine out with my employer, no matter that we occasionally dined together at home. That was more than enough flouting of protocol. So Mr. Wooster went to dinner with Mr. Dormer by himself, while I stayed at home with my hopeless yearning.

At least I got a lot of housework done. The flat was spotlessly clean and dust free, Mr. Wooster’s shirts were ironed to perfection, his shoes were shined and his sheets were changed … and if I spent a guilty few minutes smelling his pillow, nobody would ever know. I was sitting in the kitchen glaring at a gin and tonic (light on the t., as Mr. Wooster would say), when the bell rang, earlier than expected. I went to the door to greet Mr. Wooster. 

He seemed … not truly inebriated, but clearly having had a few drinks both before and after dinner. His movements had a liquid quality to them, like he was not in complete control of his limbs. His speech was clear, though, and his mind seemed clear enough as well. He handed me his coat, having easily disposed of it, and playfully put his hat on my head. 

“Oh, Jeeves,” he almost sang, “join me for a g. and t., will you?” 

“Yes, sir,” I replied, not knowing how else to respond. He headed for the sitting room while I hung his coat, and I half expected to hear the piano, but it was quiet. I felt a vague sense of apprehension, but I could not identify the reason. I fetched my own glass from the kitchen and poured a fresh drink for Mr. Wooster before joining him. 

He had sat down in one of the armchairs, directly opposite the sofa. He accepted his drink when I handed it to him, and nodded towards the sofa, indicating I should sit down. I hesitated, and he said, somewhat sharply, “Oh, do sit down, Jeeves,” and so I did. I sat on the sofa, drink in one hand, feeling every ounce of yearning inside me and every drop of alcohol in my blood, and his gaze fixed me to the spot. I was thoroughly out of my depth in this situation, and I had no idea what was on his mind. 

I pride myself on being able to read my master easily. Normally, his face is open and communicating his every thought, but for the last few weeks he had been a mystery to me. He was no less so at this moment, leaning back in his chair, looking at me with half lidded eyes, right ankle resting on his left knee. Unusually, he did not speak, and so I felt obliged to say something. 

“How was dinner, sir?” I asked, for lack of a more scintillating topic.

“Oh, nice,” he answered, and I relaxed enough to take a sip of my drink.

“Ronnie seems very happy with Paul,” he said, and I promptly inhaled nearly straight gin. He looked faintly amused while I choked, after checking if I wanted a slap on the back or possibly the Heimlich maneuver. 

“You knew, sir?” I asked, sufficiently shaken to allow shock into my voice. He had me completely off balance, and looking at him, he was well aware. 

“Oh Jeeves,” he sighed. “Of course I knew. I have known Ronnie since we were in short trousers, he would never marry a woman.” He chuckled. “I have to say, he was pretty obvious with Paul, even though that Mathilda beazel puts on a good show. Henry, the old fart, should be more than satisfied.” I had no words, and my confusion must have been plainly written on my face. He tilted his head curiously.

“Tell me, Jeeves - what makes you so shocked?” He looked genuinely interested in learning my opinion, but all thoughts had fled from my head, and I shrugged helplessly and uncharacteristically.

“I suppose I thought you were unaware of such things, sir,” I answered, and he looked completely baffled before he roared with laughter. It took him a good while to calm down, and when he did, he sipped his drink before looking me straight in the eye.

“My dear man, I did go to Eton, you know.” The implications made my ears heat up, and I could no longer look at him. I fastened my gaze on the piano, slightly to his left. 

“To be specific, I went to Eton, and later to Oxford, with Ronnie,” he clarified. I remained fascinated with the piano, but I had to ask.

“If you knew about him, sir, why did he not want to tell you about his problem?” He shrugged with one shoulder and took a sip of his drink. This seemed a good time to have another sip myself. 

“I imagine he wanted to spare my feelings,” he said, and I promptly choked again. He kept talking over my coughing. “Not that there was any need for that, all that is ancient history, but Ronnie has always been very delicate in such matters.” He smiled angelically. “How are you feeling, Jeeves? Coming down with a cold, perhaps?” I employed my best stuffed frog expression, and he appeared to make an effort to look serious, but he failed spectacularly. 

I straightened my back and reached for my cigarettes, and he was so quick to light it for me that I thought he must have had the matches ready. 

“Sir,” I tried, and my voice cracked with nerves. I took a deep drag from my cigarette and let the smoke fill my throat before I attempted to speak again. He waited, keeping his eyes on me, unrelenting.

“Sir, when did you find out about me?” His gaze softened. 

“I didn’t know until just now,” he said, and I wanted to cry. With relief, with worry, I do not know, but I was too filled with emotion to hold myself together. 

“Sir, I do not understand you. What do you want from me?” For the first time in the last week he looked hesitant. 

“I want ... “ He broke off, and lit his own cigarette. When he spoke again, he was staring at the glowing tip as though it held the key to the mysteries of the universe. “I want nothing more than what you want to give.” 

I must have looked as uncertain as I felt, because he lost his patience and crushed his freshly lit cigarette in the ashtray. 

“Oh, dash it all,” he cried, and then he stood up, downed his drink in one, and looked down at me. 

“You want to know what I want? I want everything. I want more than I have the words for and more than I thought I could ever want from anyone. But I can’t ask anything from you. You know I don’t care about those silly matters of class and propriety and what have you, but  _ you do _ . And how can I know if whatever you agree to isn’t out of some twisted sense of duty?”

Undoubtedly my face betrayed my utter bewilderment at this, as he threw his arms up in exasperation.

“I cannot be the one to initiate this, man. Don’t you see? How could I possibly live with myself if I forced myself on you?” With that, he strode out of the room. I sat stunned on the sofa, and heard the door to his bedroom close. 

I breathed deeply in and out five times in an attempt to calm myself, and then I got up and knocked on his door.


	8. A Resolution

I have no precise number for how many times I had entered his bedroom, with or without his spoken permission, but at this point, I was unable to enter until he opened the door. And open it he did, eyes just a little shiny and red rimmed; otherwise looking a lot more composed than I felt. 

“May I come in, sir?” I asked, and he stepped aside wordlessly. I had not taken note of the lack of available seats in his bedroom before now, and now it seemed like a horrifyingly intimate thing to sit on his bed. But he sat down, and patted the bed by his side, so I swallowed my misgivings and sat down as well. 

“Sir,” I started, and he looked pained.

“Could you dispense with the sirring, what? If only for this conversation? Please, call me Bertie.”

“I’m not sure I can,” I replied. “Bertram?” He smiled, merely a shadow of his full grin, but still he seemed pleased. 

“Bertram, I have to tell you I still don’t understand,” I said, and I felt uncommonly dense at that moment. His smile quirked a bit.

“What could there be to not understand?” He seemed to genuinely think he had been communicating with the utmost clarity. 

“Please start from the beginning, Bertram. Start with when Mr. Dormer asked for help.”

“That’s not really the beginning, old fruit, but alright.” He patted my leg affectionately. “I had lunch with Ronnie, he talked about his blasted uncle and I talked about my blasted aunt, and then I talked about you as I usually do,” (I smiled a bit at this) “and he said he needed help with a delicate issue. Now I know Ronnie, so I had a fair idea of what his problem was, or at least what kind of bird his problem was about.” He looked a little nervous. 

“I … well, I really wanted to know about you, don’t you know, so I thought, what if Ronnie brings his problem to you, and then I could see how you would react, what? I mean, I was certain you wouldn't bung him in the chokey, but you might have refused to help - and then you didn’t refuse, and I thought - I thought you might be …” He seemed to run out of words, and again resorted to cigarettes to cover his momentary confusion. This time it was my turn to light it for him, and he seemed pleased. 

“Well, we went to the opening, and it was a lovely party, and I thought - you looked at me like you didn’t find me entirely repulsive, and I have been devoted to you for such a long time, that I thought maybe if I tried … Well, I don't know if you have noticed, but I have been more or less throwing myself at you for a week, and I feel like an absolute ass at the moment, so any time you would like to stop me would be convenient, thank you.” I lifted his chin with a single finger.

“Bertram,” I said, and he shivered. “There are many conversations we need to have, and some of them will be uncomfortable, but for now I only have one question.” His eyes were wide and wet and the bluest blue, and I would have been content to look at him for years. For decades. He nodded.

“Bertram, are you certain you want this?” I could have sworn his smile lit up the room. 

“Yes,” he whispered, and that was enough.

I leaned in, and our lips met for the very first time.

  
  



End file.
